Arthur's Perfect Christmas
by lovemeartless
Summary: Just some mild (and rather fuwuffy) Christmas humbug (a long drabble more than anything, I should think…)(Warnings: Yep, nothing really happens here but it is STILL yaoi/shounen-ai, so...)


**Disclaimer:** Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for _all_ my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Huzzah! X3

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Story #145:

 **"Arthur's Perfect Christmas"**

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Arthur slid the invitation into the waste bin beside his desk. He was in no mood to be sociable this year. He wasn't at all looking forward to small talk from people he hardly knew or even remembered, putting on smiles on for everyone until his cheek muscles were practically failing –and least of all, binging on party junk food. He checked the time.

Exactly 11 o' clock. He still had a lot of time to change his mind. But he knew he wouldn't. Because he was determined to spend Christmas the way he wanted this year, as he tried to, many Christmases prior. He liked the solitude and solemnity above all, over the hype. Pulling on his coat and wrapping his scarf snugly around his neck, he stepped outside to head for the grocer's store to fulfil the shopping list attached to the fridge with a union jack magnet.

The streets were as lively as could be expected on the day of Christmas Eve. Happy decor, carollers singing familiar songs, the smell of roasting chestnuts and freshly mowed snow; And he knew when the sun set later that evening, the season's lights would come alive and make the scene even more vibrant. Arthur took his time picking the ingredients as meticulously as possible, and as he walked home, he found himself listening to the children's voices raised in song.

It was one o'clock by the time he was back. He shook his boots, hung his coat, and proceeded to deposit the fresh supplies in the kitchen. As he did, the thought of tonight's special feast made him salivate. He didn't know why he even imagined it when he wasn't planning on cooking. But it felt so real in his mind that his heart practically radiated warmth.

He prepares a pot of water for some afternoon tea -having no appetite for lunch whatsoever- one he planned to enjoy after a bit of last minute gardening and tidying up. He didn't know why he was tidying the place (he certainly had not invited anyone over). But he had a hidden smile somewhere at the corner of his lips, and his fairy friends that buzzed about instantly took notice, wasting no time in teasing him about it.

" _Someone is happy today…_ "

" _We think we know what you're so pleased about!_ "

" _He is coming isn't he?_ "

"I haven't the faintest idea of what you're going on about." Arthur shrugged nonchalantly. But a dust of pink was creeping into his cheeks.

"You didn't invite him?"

"That persona non grata invites himself whenever he pleases. I don't ever invite him."

"Then he _is_ coming!" The three fairies squealed. Arthur scowled as they all nudged his cheeks before whizzing off somewhere he didn't care to follow. Probably to resume frolicking in the flowerbeds and blowing each other face-fulls of pollen. He chuckled inwardly at the idea, even though he snorted as Scrooge-like as he could on the outside.

After removing his apron and setting aside his garden tools, he manages to finish the rest of the chores. By 3 o'clock he is settled in his armchair by the fireplace, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey, and staring absently into a book of which title he couldn't register, mind to preoccupied with something else entirely. He was a bit tired, and as his mind dipped to and from consciousness, the subject of what present he would be receiving this year seeped into his thoughts. Last year it was a new set of knitting needles, along with a year's supply of bandage strips… ( _Ho-ho, very funny._ ) At least it wasn't another frilly apron with the fire department's number on it…

Still, he was apprehensive about his own offering… "I hope he likes the gloves I made for him…" thought the Englishman, quite ruefully, remembering how he had unintentionally torn the other's gloves in their last meeting two months ago. His neighbour had been so busy since, that he hasn't had time to replace it. Then he wished they would have pot roast tonight. He always made the most scrumptious pot roast…

Finally, he put down the nameless book. The pendulum steals his attention for a few wistful moments before he gets up with a soft sigh. There was still time for a leisurely bath. And in the warmth of the tub water littered with rose petals and his favourite milk and honey liquid body soap, he dozed off and dreamt of getting another tricolour set of underpants, and being fondled (not entirely unwillingly) under the mistletoe as they shared a kiss. Well, at least there was pot roast.

It was 6:30 now, and Arthur's heart decided it was time to beat faster. He was now fully dressed, examining his reflection in front of the full-length mirror. He ran his fingers through his untamed hair, not bothering with the brush. He already made sure he looked presentable, and everything was set, but he decided maybe one last check to make sure everything was in order. He couldn't help but scoff out loud for checking the bedroom first. It was very cosy. Freshly pressed sheets, and a low fire in the hearth. After a final tour, he was satisfied everything was perfect.

All that's left was…

 _What if he wasn't coming this year? What if he decided to never leave the party because he was having too much fun? What if this year, he finally got tired of spending Christmas with me?_

It was 7 o' clock, and "the party" he opted not to attend should be starting right about now. His uninvited guest usually arrived at his doorstep a little past 8. He always showed up at the party first to greet all of his friends and give out presents (which would actually be nice, if he didn't usually show up with nothing on except matching Santa Claus hat and boots).

A knock at the front door jolts him out of his faraway thoughts. He wondered –with some apprehension- who it could be. The introvert in him did not wish to see or be seen by anyone else today, and if he had to be forced to entertain them on account of the occasion, he knew everything would be ruined for him. Surely it couldn't be any of the other Nations, they should all be at the party by now, and he could not imagine any reason for the visit; Except of course if they side-tracked to pick him up… Oh dear, heavens no. Finally, at the front door, he closes his eyes, hand suspended above the door latch, weighing the pros and cons of feigning absence. But the soft knocking came again, riling him somewhat. With a silent oath to not allow himself to be dragged off to any loud, unruly and childish activities at all costs, he unfastened the latch and swung open the door.

Before he could will himself free from his befuddlement, he found his own breath stolen from him by soft lips and a warm tongue in a brief but mind-numbing kiss. He could taste the iciness of the weather, the Merlot, and the coy smile against his lips before he was released. How the Frenchman still managed to shock him with such blatant acts was a bloody mystery.

"Mistletoe," was all the explanation his neighbour offered with a slight glance upward the said innocent ornament, before he let himself in, stripping off his excess layers before grabbing at Arthur's hand and pulling him in towards the warmer parts of the house. Even through Francis' leather gloves, he could feel the snug warmth created by their interlocked fingers, and that silly high-school girl feeling was back in the pit of his stomach.

"Y-Your early."

"I know you miss _ton grand frere_ , an' I didn'tz want to keep you wait'zing too long, _Cheri_."

"Your bleeding modesty never ceases to astound me, frog."

The other merely grinned, handing him a bottle of wine, a couple of bags filled with some freshly baked bread still warm, along with an assortment of fine cheeses and sweet delicacies –the sinfully delicious smells made his stomach grumble impatiently. Of course, there was the usual bouquet of roses, which his guest set about arranging, in a vase he had purposefully left as the table centrepiece for that very purpose. England watched his neighbour, oldest rival, beloved enemy, best friend, and yes, maybe much, much more- attached to so many unnamed feelings that he could not justify with words, and a whole-hearted smile found its way to his lips.

"Merry Christmas, Francis."

 **The End** (Not) **.**

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 **Notes:**

A practice piece that I wrote too many Christmases ago.

Happy Christmas, lovelies! -Marie

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(Yuletide 2012 - Yuletide 2015)

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